


Climate Change

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Developing Relationship, Insomnia, Lestrade Dances, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Nostalgia, Romance, Springsteen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There's a heat wave in London, and Lestrade is really in no mood to deal with Sherlock's demands. Written before S2, so there is no Mrs. Lestrade and Sherlock is not "the virgin."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Climate Change

**Author's Note:**

> _Betaed by fengirl88_   
> 

 

Lestrade left his jacket and tie draped over his desk chair, knowing that in this bloody heat wave the August air outside would be hot and sticky, even at this late hour. Fuck global warming. Wasn't it supposed melt the ice caps and flood the streets? Maybe he'd buy a canoe and paddle as far away as possible. Good riddance to everything.

He rolled up his shirtsleeves and then tucked his hands in his pockets to make sure he had his keys and phone as he exited the building, thinking that a good long walk home would help clear the crap day from his head and maybe help him get some sleep.

Jesus, if he could just enjoy some quiet for a change. But not total silence. He welcomed the sounds of the city at night: cars and buses rolling by, the muffled strains of music and voices drifting from clubs and cafes as he passed, teenagers laughing as they herded together, waiting for the midnight showing of some grisly horror film. Those sounds were comforting. Normal.

What had pushed Lestrade to his breaking point today were the sounds of stupid people asking him stupid questions. Complaining, arguing, never letting him have a moment of peace. There were too many days like this lately. Days when no one on his team was happy, no one seemed capable of doing the job without manufacturing a crisis. Lestrade sometimes felt that being a DI was like being a kindergarten teacher--wiping everyone's noses and trying to get them to sit still and just recite the fucking alphabet--or complete the fucking paperwork--like they were supposed to.

And Sherlock. Good God, if he got one more text from that pompous, condescending prick today, he'd throw his mobile into the Thames. Sherlock was bored and hadn't slept in days. The consulting detective's mind was, Lestrade knew from experience, in a sort of tormented netherworld right now. Sherlock didn't have a difficult case to occupy him , so his synapses were firing and sparking at random. He saw everything and everyone distorted, too bright or too dark, in too many separate neon-glowing pieces or completely undifferentiated and transparent. He couldn't calm his thoughts or focus them. And therefore, sleep was impossible. Lestrade knew it was only a matter of hours or at most a day before Sherlock would demand that the DI help him get on the other side of this frantic state of mind, but Lestrade wasn't sure he could bring himself to do it this time.

Lestrade tried to take deep breaths of the night air, but it was so thick and warm that it felt like too much effort to pull it into his lungs. Dammit, was there no cool breeze anywhere tonight? He turned the corner to walk east toward the river, hoping the air would be stirring more there.

As he walked past two lovers kissing in a pub doorway, the DI's mind wandered back to the first time he had been lured into helping Sherlock through one of these chaotic mind crises. That episode was on Lestrade's personal Top Five Fucks list.

They had worked together on only a few small cases and known each other less than a year, but Lestrade had already become enthralled (some might say obsessed) with the young detective. Sherlock had stalked and cornered Lestrade as he was walking near the Chelsea Bridge on a much cooler August night four years ago. Drawing his arm firmly around Lestrade's neck from behind, Sherlock slowly unwound into the D. I.'s ear a list of the things he wanted Lestrade to do to him-- and all the things he was willing to do to Lestrade in return.

The voice made Lestrade go weak and lose his balance for an instant, but Sherlock was holding him up with one powerful arm around his neck and one graceful hand cupped at the front of his trousers. As he looked back on that night, Lestrade didn't recall saying much during the entire encounter beyond a limited repertoire of curses. Sherlock, however, did keep talking. That first time, Lestrade found the step-by-step instructions and commentary in the melodious baritone unbelievably arousing.

"Unbutton my shirt."

"Use your teeth on my neck."

"I'm going to suck your cock now. But you are not going to come. Do you understand?"

"Turn around and face the wall."

"Stop breathing now, until I let go."

"Move with me. Faster. "

"Now, yes, right now. . . "

Lestrade came explosively into his own fist, with Sherlock pulsing inside him. For a moment, he couldn't feel any parts of his body except those connected to Sherlock: the area of his shoulder on which one pale hand was splayed, the long stretch of his back pressed against Sherlock's warm, wet chest, and the deep channel inside him occupied by Sherlock's cock. Nothing else existed.

For a few minutes they leaned together under the bridge, half-naked and weak, necks and torsos bruised and bitten. Sherlock pulled Lestrade's face to his and kissed him on the cheek--the way you might kiss the host of a party goodbye, as you took your leave. Lestrade almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Almost.

"Help me get home so I can sleep, Inspector."

After they dressed and staggered to the street to hail a cab, Lestrade had offered to go with Sherlock to his flat, not wanting to sever the strange connection completely just yet, trying to understand what had happened. Sherlock placed a hand on Lestrade's chest, keeping him at a distance. Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot and his lids half-closed. "No. I need to be alone to sleep. I'll speak to you when you have a new case, perhaps. Don't contact me for a few days."

Lestrade had simply nodded and watched the cab drive away.

From that day onward, his relationship with Sherlock would be rigidly defined and divided. There would be these sudden physical encounters, always on Sherlock's terms, never initiated by Lestr ade. And there would be the working partnership, always initiated by Lestrade, yet this too bound and measured by Sherlock's rules and needs.

************

It had been three--no, almost four years since that first August night. And now Lestrade heard the familiar footsteps behind him as he had predicted: long strides, precise taps of the heels of Italian shoes. Purposeful. Arrogant. Without turning around, Lestrade addressed his stalker, "I don't want to hear anything you have to say, Sherlock. I'm in no mood for your complaints or desires, so just go home."

"You must absolutely keep Anderson out of my way from now on. He seems to base his near-worthless existence on controlling pieces of evidence that are better left in my hands."

"He's just doing his job, per my instructions. Get away from me."

"I need to obtain a variety of pistols and rifles for an experiment--about two dozen--as well as ammunition."

"I would sooner cut off my right arm . . . No, in fact, I'd sooner cut off both _your_ arms than provide you with firearms of any kind. So forget that plan right now."

"There were eleven errors in your most recent press release. Six punctuation. One spelling. Four grammatical. That is the worst sort of sloppy workmanship."

"Call Tilda. She handles the communications. I'll give you her private number, and you can call her right now at home if you'll get the hell away from me."

"Yesterday I found the femur of a dog or wolf--I'm not sure which yet--in a skip behind . . ."

Lestrade stopped and pivoted to face his tormenter. Sherlock was clearly going to come at him with every inane thought in his head, firing as if with a little poison dart gun, hoping something would stick. This might even be amusing if Lestrade weren't in such a black mood and so tired. Resisting the temptation to punch the bugger in the face, Lestrade shoved his fists into his pockets, and stood his ground. He spoke as calmly and coolly as he could, with rivulets of sweat running down his back. It was still hot as hell, even though the moon was up, glowing behind threatening rain clouds.

"Sherlock, I know what you want, and I'm not having it tonight. Why can't you just go home and crawl in bed with that golden retriever you call your flatmate and leave me alone?"

"I tried that yesterday. He kicked me out of his room. Something about boundaries and not being mauled in his sleep. He seems to be taking his revenge by refusing to buy me milk or tea. He is surprisingly childish for a man of his accomplishments and education."

Lestrade threw his head back and laughed.  Sherlock calling someone else childish--bloody ridiculous. His dark mood lightened a bit, and he felt a little tickle of relief knowing Sherlock had not succeeded in seducing the doctor. "Score a point for John Watson. I've underestimated him. Next thing you know he'll make you sweep your own floors. Well, I still can't help you tonight. You're going to have to maul a stranger. I'm closed for business."

Sherlock reached for Lestrade's arm, not acknowledging he had lost this contest of wills, but the D.I. pulled away and kept walking.

"I need your _help_ , Lestrade. You are the _only_ _one_ who understands my situation." Sherlock took longer steps to keep pace with Lestrade, who had increased his speed.

"So you need my help, do you? You know what I need? I need silence, and I need a cold drink," said Lestrade, not taking Sherlock's _you're the only one_ bait, and scanning the street ahead for a likely pub or cafe to duck into.

"Good. We can help each other. Let's make a bargain. I will accompany you for a drink, and I will give you one hour of silence. And you will assist me with my insomnia."

Lestrade paused to look directly at Sherlock for a moment. He was intrigued. With Sherlock desperate enough to actually admit needing his help, maybe he should enter into this negotiation. Sherlock saw him wavering and put a hand on Lestrade's waist. The DI's white shirt was damp with sweat and clinging to his body. Sherlock tried to pull him close, thinking his resistance was crumbling, but Lestrade pulled away.

"Not so fast. Fine, you come with me to that pub across the street. But you have to give me twelve hours of silence--absolute silence--if you really expect to get off tonight."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smirked. "That is an asinine request. Out of the question."

"Then, good night and good luck, mate." Lestrade bounded across the street and into the cool, dark pub that he recalled from a few earlier visits as gay-friendly and not too chic for his tastes.

Minutes later, Sherlock was scowling and grinding his teeth as he sat across from Lestrade, who had already finished half a pint and was pushing a bubbly glass of water with a twist of lime toward Sherlock. They stayed at the pub for more than an hour, with Lestrade gradually growing more and more jovial, delighting in mute, sulking Sherlock; the cold air blowing down on his neck; the music; and the cheery patrons around him. It was '80s night, and Lestrade smiled and tapped the table as he listened to the rhythm guitars and drumbeats of his youth.

A young hipster in tight jeans, spikey blonde hair, and black-framed glasses dragged Lestrade onto the tiny makeshift dance floor that had been set aside in a corner, and Lestrade let himself enjoy the _frisson_ of excitement up his spine as he danced with the young man. The Kinks. Elvis Costello. A beautiful thirty-something Indian woman with long, swirling hair cut in and joined them to make a threesome. Blondie. Nick Lowe. Then suddenly the entire room seemed to leap up to twist and sing in camp exaggeration. "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go . . . "

Lestrade left the dance floor laughing and panting. Rejoining Sherlock, the D.I. took note of the stunned look on his consulting detective's face.

"Okay, okay. I know. I'm too old for this," Lestrade said with a blush. But his heart was racing and the adrenaline surge had improved his mood enormously. He downed the final swallows of his third pint and was pulling his wallet out to pay the barmaid, when he heard a familiar riff and leaned back in his chair. "Oh Jesus, I love this one‚" he whispered. Impulsively, Lestrade pulled Sherlock up and dragged his stiff, tense frame to the dance floor.

"One more, and we'll go. I promise." Lestrade wrapped his left arm around Sherlock's waist, clasping one of Sherlock's hands in his, bent up at the elbow, and tucked between their chests. They swayed awkwardly together, but roughly in time to an old Bruce Springsteen ballad.

_[Another Saturday night. You're all dressed up in blue.  
I've been watching you awhile, maybe you've been watching me too . . . . . .](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAX2NF2zByc)_

_[ Maybe your other boyfriends couldn't pass the test.  
But if you're rough and ready for love, honey, I'm tougher than the rest.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAX2NF2zByc) _

Lestrade was a bit drunk, so he leaned his chin onto Sherlock's shoulder, despite the fact that he could feel discomfort oozing from Sherlock's every pore. _This song is such romantic bullshit,_ thought Lestrade. _Why did I like it so much?_ He glanced over to catch the eye of his bespectacled friend, who was dancing with a handsome, dark-haired boy now. Lestrade smiled at them, hoping the two young men would end up together at the end of the night.

The music stopped and Lestrade let go of Sherlock, ending his obvious agony. "Well, that was an absurd little exercise, wasn't it," said Lestrade with a rueful glance into Sherlock's gray eyes, as he walked back to the table to pay the bill. Sherlock nodded, but Lestrade noticed the barest twitch of a smile glancing across his lips.

A light rain was beginning to fall, sending steam up from the overheated streets. Lestrade decided they should hail a cab and go back to his flat to complete the bargain, instead of looking for a spot out of reach of CCTV cameras, or heaven forbid, going back to Baker Street, and risk waking John.

  
In the cab, Sherlock unbuttoned Lestrade's shirt halfway down his chest so he could lick and suck at his neck. He teased circles around Lestrade's dark nipples and palmed his erection through his trousers. With no energy to care about the cabbie's furtive glances into the rearview mirror, Lestrade lay back and let Sherlock work on him, listening to the rain and the sound of his own speeding heartbeat.

When they got to the flat, they didn't bother to turn on the lights, but Lestrade opened a couple of windows. In came a cool, damp breeze and all the comforting, clattering soundscape of London at night. Lestrade slowly removed Sherlock's shirt, running his tongue across cool, pink pebbled nipples and then down his sternum to a flat, smooth abdomen. God, he was beautiful. Lestrade wondered how he'd forgotten just how beautiful. Undoing Sherlock's belt and trousers, Lestrade slipped his hands under the waist of his boxer shorts. He kissed Sherlock's open, hungry mouth and traced intricate patterns along his shoulders with teeth and tongue as he pushed toward the bedroom. Sherlock pressed his hips forward, grinding his erection against Lestrade's.

There was something different in their maneuvers tonight, and not only because they were in an actual bed for a change. Instead of urgent thrusts and gasps, everything seemed to be in slow motion. Sherlock's movements were languid and feline, as if he had all the time in the world to stretch and growl. For his part, Lestrade felt the need to press his lips to every inch of his partner's skin before attending to anything else.

Sherlock kept his end of the bargain and stayed quiet. With no other distractions, to Lestrade's ears the modulations in Sherlock's breathing were musical, and Lestrade used his own hands and lips to change the rhythms and tempo of those breaths. Lestrade realized he was treating Sherlock like a lover for the first time, not a project to be completed. He explored the pale, gorgeous body and perfect skin as he had never done before, with no fear of rebukes or snide commentaries.

He kissed Sherlock's fingers and sucked each one into his mouth before moving his lips to the delicate wrists and long arms. Sherlock writhed and twisted with pleasure, enfolding Lestrade in his arms and covering his shoulders and chest with wet, slippery kisses. They seemed in silent agreement on continuing their foreplay as long as possible, until both of them felt chapped and dazed, half-asleep and half-awake, legs and arms entwined, and cocks throbbing for release.

Lestrade broke the embrace first, moving down to swallow Sherlock into his mouth and begin a deliberate, rhythmic sucking. Caressing Sherlock's muscular thighs as they wrapped tight, then tighter around him, Lestrade felt a kind of desire he hadn't felt in years coiling inside him. He wet his fingers with pre-come, moving a hand gently around Sherlock's buttocks to press fingers inside him, mimicking the rhythm of his mouth. Sherlock's hands flew into Lestrade's hair, tugging, urging him to move faster now. Lestrade tightened his lips and his cheeks went concave as he sucked Sherlock to climax, exulting in the sharp cries of pleasure that finally broke Sherlock's silence.

Lestrade grinned. He loved the little shudders and sighs that escaped Sherlock's lips as he tried to come back to Earth. The D.I. slid up for another kiss--full and deep, letting Sherlock's long tongue find the lingering bitter flavor in his mouth.

Lestrade's own erection was still hard and insistent. He rose to his knees, pulling a bottle from his bedside table and oiling his fingers. Sherlock took the bottle and poured the glistening liquid on his own hands and then massaged Lestrade's thick, blue-veined cock. Sherlock leaned up for another kiss and then turned to face the pillows. Lestrade pulled Sherlock's hips up to meet his own and then slowly thrust ins ide--inch-by-inch, listening to Sherlock's sharp gasps and unashamed pleas for "More--God, please--more."  He kept moving, slow and controlled, feeling each stroke intensely and completely, finding his way deeper into his lover's body. Then he lost himself in the motion of Sherlock suddenly pushing upward fast and hard to meet him. As Lestrade came he fell forward to wrap his arms around Sherlock, choking out his name again and again.

In the morning, Lestrade wasn't quite sure how to begin a conversation, and despite his twelve hours having run out, Sherlock was unusually quiet. So Lestrade made tea and toast in silence, and the two men sat down to breakfast. Sherlock worked on the crossword in his head while Lestrade read the front pages.

Finally, Sherlock spoke, without looking up from his puzzle. "I think that was an interesting experiment last night. One that bears repeating," he said. "I think we should go dancing again."

Lestrade almost spat out the tea he had just sipped, but managed to swallow with a short cough. "Mmm. Yes. Good idea," he agreed, then opened the _Guardian_ to read the science pages, wondering if global warming or possibly some kind of solar flares were to blame for this whole turn of events with Sherlock.

"There is no scientific link between human relationships and global climate change, you idiot," said Sherlock, reading Lestrade's thoughts, with the barest hint of a smile. "I need some milk for this tea."

"In the fridge. Get it yourself, genius."

And he did.

 

 


End file.
